Through The Looking Glass
by Spencer5460
Summary: He's cracked and broken – maybe beyond repair. Reassembled with seemingly nothing more substantial than paste and string. He'll be damned if he'll hold back the one who'd been holding him together.


**THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS**

 _You have to die a few times before you really live_ – Charles Bukowski

Chapter 1

STARSKY

Nothing could be more familiar than his own room, yet he feels a stranger here. As if he'd woken up inside Huggy's parallel dimension where everything was the same, only different. The shadows on the wall are no longer just trees stirring in the moonlight. They are orderlies and nurses coming with more tests and medications. A robe hanging on the door is an IV machine. His _Motor Trend_ and _Popular Photography_ magazines are still on his nightstand, but now buried beneath four pill bottles and a glass half-full of tepid water.

He can't get comfortable in his bed no matter how hard he tries. Each toss and turn drags at the barely healed wounds on his back and chest. Gaping flesh that's been pulled and stitched together. And those are just the surface wounds. Deeper still are a collapsed lung and what remains of his liver, along with other damage inflicted by close-range bullets. The doctors couldn't save his spleen. He was told he could live without it but he'll have to be hyper-vigilant about infections from now on.

 _If what doesn't kill you makes you stronger why do I feel so damn weak?_

He needs to take a piss but damn if he'll call Hutch to help him. Hutch has been working double shifts – a full day on the job interrupted with frequent stops at home to check on Starsky, then a full evening helping him with the simplest of chores. Cooking, cleaning, bathing, keeping up with medications. _You'd think I could make it to the goddamn toilet on my own._ His inner reprimand lashes.

Everyone had been so jubilant those first few days at the hospital when he had opened his eyes. No one more so than Hutch. He had seemed to go through hell and back along with Starsky. There'd been veal and champagne and water bursting from a ceiling sprinkler, baptizing them as if they'd been reborn.

 _But reborn to what_? Starsky questions. Wheelchairs and bedpans, endless therapies and indignities. And the pain that torments him at night, robbing him of restorative sleep. He wants to be Hutch's partner, not his patient. Maybe it would have been better if he _had_ died.

Starsky lies awake, remembering his visit with Tommy Johnson after he'd gotten his arm blown off in 'Nam. He'd tried not watch as Tom's mom bent to tie his shoe. Tommy explained how his fiancé, the pretty blonde whose picture he carried all through the Tet Offensive, had broken off their engagement.

"It was like losing my right arm," he'd smiled at his own morbid joke.

Starsky sits up carefully, the urge from his bladder like a misbehaving child, too insistent to ignore. He swings his legs over the edge of the bed. A plastic urinal hides underneath. As much as Hutch tells him he doesn't mind, Starsky has vowed to never use it again. He stands up and gives himself a minute to steady. Then he progresses slowly, one foot in front of the other as he's practiced in physical therapy, to the bathroom.

Everyone keeps telling him he needs to be patient. It's a miracle he's alive. Well, he'd lost his patience in the army waiting for the bombs to explode. Besides, a grown man being able to relieve and clean up after himself was no fucking miracle to his way of thinking.

Starsky leans heavily against the bathroom door frame and takes a few breaths, anxious not to wake Hutch sprawled on the couch. He notices the other man's shadowy image reflected in the bathroom mirror. A bare torso and one muscled arm peek out from the blanket while other long limbs are twisted underneath. Hutch's awkward sleeping arrangement is just another sacrifice he's made on Starsky's behalf.

He listens to Hutch's soft snoring, the lulling in and out. For the thousandth time Starsky wonders what he'd have done without him. _The man is more than a handy appendage, he is more like a part of my soul._ Sometimes he thinks the only reason he came back from the dead is because he'd heard Hutch calling his name.

KATE

At sixteen Kate Larrabee was sure of two things. One was that life was better for the beautiful people and two, she was one of them. Her jeans curved smoothly and her hair waved effortlessly. Everyone smiled when she entered a room.

Things came easier to her than to plainer girls. At first it was help with homework and rides to the store. Later it was a place on the cheerleading squad and Saturday night dates. As long as she could keep up appearances, she could only imagine what the future held.

The rising sun illuminated the church's magnificent stained window; glowing splinters of color that held the worshipers enthrall. Kate's pink lips curved. How she admired the glass. The stronger the light, the more obsured the cracks.

Then she tilted her head in order to better hear Ken Hutchinson's smooth tenor from one pew behind.

"Lord, when You look on us in love,  
At once there falls from God above  
A ray of purest pleasure."

The words were particularly fitting. He was not only a pleasure to listen to, but to look at as well. She turned to smile at him and, just as she expected, he smiled back.

Kate and Ken dated for almost a year. He was sweet and unpretentious almost to a fault. Sometimes she thought he didn't even know how glorious he was. He talked about going to law school; wanting to help people less fortunate. It was a sentiment she respected but didn't share and their roads gradually diverged.

She left for New York and Ford Models a month after her eighteenth birthday. Age and beauty were contentious bedfellows she didn't intend to entertain. She found success quickly, as she had expected. Her image graced magazine ads all over the world, selling illusion in glossy, four-color process. She wore beautiful clothes and attended gala events with finely chiseled men who'd be with another head-turner the following week.

By the time she reached twenty-five Kate had everything she'd ever wanted and everyone wanted a piece of her, too. But only a piece. She found herself reminiscing about Ken back in Duluth. His shy smile and gentlemanly manners were a long way off. Hometown contacts said he'd left college and moved to California. That he was studying to be a police officer.

She smiled into her Burgundy. She wasn't all that surprised. His parents might not be thrilled with his choice but he'd always been unafraid to take the road less traveled.

Chapter 2

STARSKY

Starsky's midnight trip might have been completely clandestine if not for his bump into the couch on the way back. He curses his unsteady balance as Hutch sits up instantly.

"Starsk?" His concern is evident even in the dark.

"Just went to the john."

"You make it okay?"

"Since I was three." The words fall out in a churlish tumble and Starsky immediately bites his lip in regret.

"Let me help you back to bed." Hutch unwraps himself from the blanket and touches his feet to the floor.

"Look, I know you want to help, but I need to start doing some things for myself."

"I don't mind, you know," Hutch responds gently.

Starsky sways and Hutch is there to steady him. His broad chest is a wall against the world, solid and warm. Each time they connect, Starsky draws from Hutch's quiet strength even as Hutch seems to extract the greater part of Starsky's pain.

He feels a pathetic shadow of the man he had been. He hates being so useless yet can't resist the urge to rest against Hutch's welcoming frame. He counts to ten.

"How could you not?" Starsky's voice breaks in spite of himself.

 _Just how much was Hutch willing to sacrifice?_ He asks himself, although he already knows the answer.

There were worse things than having bullets turn your insides to ground beef.

KATE

Seven years ago a job had taken her to Los Angeles. She lost no time in looking up Ken and they met for a quick bite at a downtown pub. Life had moved on for him just as it had for her. Maturity had only added to his appeal, although fine lines of tension appeared as he talked about Vanessa Davis, another hometown beauty who was now his wife. She wondered at his choice. Perhaps it was one final concession to family pressure.

His face softened then as he told her about the police academy and the friends he'd made since coming to California.

"Who'd have thought it? You hanging out with celebrities and me partnered with a street kid from Brooklyn?" His smile dazzled and he took another swig from his can of beer.

The way Ken said 'street kid' was anything but derogatory. There was with a warmth and familiarity even _she_ could feel. It was apparent he'd found his soulmate, but it wasn't Vanessa. While she, herself, doubted she'd ever find anyone to trust with her soul.

Kate and Ken parted ways after lunch with a friendly hug but no promises to stay in touch. Too much water had passed under the bridge, the river had diverged.

Then the supermodel who was surrounded by adoration all day went home alone. The person everyone envied found herself on the other side of the looking glass.

ooooooooooooooooo

Thirty four tests in twenty four weeks couldn't be wrong. A mind-numbing array of doctors' reports, lab tests, blood counts, and tissues samples. She had to face the ugly truth. Lymphoma would bring Kate's charmed life to an end. Fate's favored child had somehow fallen from grace; the fragile glass shattered in pieces on the ground.

Kate lay awake at night terrorized by thoughts of needles and nausea, wheelchairs and wasting away. A lonely death in some nondescript hospital room, her La Perla lingerie traded for a johnny gown. Her beauty and bank account shriveled like an apple left to rot. Who would want her then? The image was unbearable. Could anyone blame her if she chose to confront Fate head-on? Or was she a coward for not wanting to know the time and place?

A back room connection led her to James Brady who took her money and delivered her to the Angel of Death. Angel could end her life quickly and cleanly - with no hideous lingering. She handed over her money.

Then the winds of Fate changed and she was given a reprieve. Her glowing health was restored. Life was worth living again. But she'd seen a reflection of how life might have been. This time things would be different.

When Brady told her her deal with the devil couldn't be called off, she knew of only one person who might help her.

Chapter 3

STARSKY

Hutch helps Starsky to bed, refills his glass of water and hands him a pill from one of the bottles on his night stand.

Starsky takes a sip from the glass but pushes the pill away.

"It will help you sleep." Hutch reaches back for his hand, presses the pill firmly in his palm and closes his fingers around it.

"I sleep fine." Starsky insists, his hand remaining curled around the tiny pill.

"Is that so? Then prove it." Hutch gently nudges him over then sits down on the bed next to him, resting his back against the headboard and stretching long legs out in front.

Starsky sighs, then slips the pill in his mouth and washes it down. "This comin' back from the dead isn't all that it's cracked up to be."

He hands Hutch the glass and closes his eyes.

"You know what that doctors said. Be patient." Hutch sets the glass aside and repeats the words he's said a hundred times. He squeezes the bridge of his nose for a minute, then crosses his arms in front of his chest. He leans his head back, settling in as if for an all-night stakeout.

Hutch's body language is easy to read. They're both too tired to argue, to find something new to say. Once more Starsky finds himself listening to Hutch's breathing. The sound deep and steady within minutes, indicating he's fallen back to sleep, overtaken by exhaustion. It's been weeks since his voluntary caregiver has had a full night's rest.

A pain seizes Starsky's chest that has nothing to do with his half-healed organs. _How long can Hutch pull double duty and play nursemaid to a grown man?_ The doctors are reluctant to tell them when, or even if, Starsky might return to work.

Starsky had dreamed of being a cop for as long as he could remember. It was in his blood, the way it had been in his father's. Of the two, Hutch's path had been more challenging. He had gone against his own family, even lost his wife, in order to wear his badge.

He's been showered with honors since bringing down James Gunther's crime syndicate nearly single-handedly – features on the news and an invitation to lunch with the governor - but has been so busy with Starsky he hasn't taken the time to enjoy what he's earned.

If any time was his to rise and shine, this was it. Hutch could easily move into the lieutenant's position he deserved. They'd never talked about it, but they didn't need to. Starsky was a street cop, he knew it and didn't mind. He was good at his job. He was where he fit in, where he belonged – if he ever got back on his feet, that is.

He'd never fooled himself that Hutch wasn't destined for more.

Since academy days they'd been a mix-matched set, somehow filling in each other's missing pieces. An improbable yin and yang. Inseparable. Hell, they'd even quit the force together once, but the funny thing was, that incident only drew them closer together.

Then Starsky had nearly been killed and had finally gone somewhere even Hutch couldn't follow.

Now he's cracked and broken – maybe beyond repair. Reassembled with seemingly nothing more substantial than paste and string. He'll be damned if he'll hold back the one who'd been holding him together.

ooooooooooooooooooo

Hutch gave up his morning jog weeks ago. A forfeiture doubly upsetting to Starsky since he is keenly aware Hutch had only resumed his healthy habits shortly after the debacle with Kira. A wake up call to them both. Now Hutch makes breakfast for two - scrambled eggs, toast and a double batch of protein shake. He counts out pills and makes sure the refrigerator is stocked with the approved foods from Dr. Fletcher's list – all before leaving for the police station.

"Breakfast is on the stove, Starsk. Eat while it's still warm."

Starsky doesn't move from the bed. He stays motionless even when after a few minutes he feels it sink down under Hutch's weight.

"Need help with a shower?" Hutch doesn't buy his possum routine.

"I can get it." Starsky mumbles into a pillow.

"I'll be back at one o'clock to pick you up for therapy."

Starsky rolls half-way over and finds himself eye-level with a glass, frothy and green with Hutch's concoction. "You can't keep doing this, Hutch. You've got enough work at the station."

"I told you before. Dobey's worked it all out."

"Maybe Dobey has, but he's not the only one to consider. What about all the other guys who have to cover for you every time you run back here or take me to an appointment?"

"They're happy to do it. You know that." Hutch sets the drink Starsky tries to ignore on the night stand.

"Well if it's all that same to you, I think today I'll just take a cab." Starsky uses the moment to contrarily reach for the glass. He holds it to his lips and looks down in, avoiding Hutch's eyes.

"You've never been a good liar, but you win first prize at being stubborn as hell." Hutch nearly growls as he rises from the bed. For the first time since the shooting, the man actually sounds irritated.

 _Terrific,_ Starsky thinks. He lets the cool liquid coat his throat. It's a sign of how far gone he is that the drink begins to taste good, while his attitude sours.

Hutch heads for the door then stops and turns. Starsky feels blue beams probe him, an organic X-ray machine examining into his soul. _Are you thinking what I'm thinking_? They'd exchanged the phrase countless times. Starsky recites a prayer of desperation that the current flowing between them will somehow short circuit.

The only thing he can protect Hutch from now is himself.

"You better leave or you'll be late."

Chapter 4

 _With death over your left shoulder, everything is important_ \- Kate Larrabee

A gentle knocking on the door interrupts Bob Barker's pitch from television land. It barely registers with Starsky as he sits slumped on the couch, a pill bottle clutched in his hand. The bottle holds eleven pills. He knows because he's been counting them over and over for the past hour. He just doesn't know if eleven is enough.

The light knock comes again. Almost apologetic.

Hutch must have sent someone over to check on him. Starsky hadn't answered the phone all day despite knowing at least two calls had to have been from his partner. One close to noon, no doubt reminding him of his therapy appointment and checking if he had really called a cab. And at least one more shortly after that.

When one o'clock came and went, guilt bit him like a vicious dog. Hutch doesn't deserve to be made to worry. _Hutch doesn't deserve a lot of things_ , Starsky reminds himself.

Starsky pushes himself off the couch and hobbles to the door. He intends to open it only long enough to prove to whatever reluctant rookie Hutch has sent that he is still among the living. If he could call what he is doing living.

He is surprised to see a stunning brunette rather than an awkward uniform as he pulls open the door. Starsky is suddenly embarrassed by the picture he presents. Disheveled hair, two days of stubble and a rumbled t-shirt. _Damn, I probably stink, too._

"David Starsky? Do you remember me? I'm Kate Larrabee." The brunette introduces herself in voice husky and melodic.

"Oh yeah, sure." He recalls the old flame of Hutch's, a high profile model who had needed his and Hutch's help to call off a hired hit. Her own. Starsky drags a hand through his hair then steps back to let her in. He flips a switch and light falls on the crossword puzzle books, magazines and dirty dishes scattered about. The signs of someone cooped up too long.

"How ya doin?" He stiffly moves a small pile of get well cards from a chair. At first, Hutch had tacked the cards to the refrigerator as they came in, but they quickly became too many to handle. Now they found homes on nearly every flat surface in the apartment.

"I'm doing fine, just fine." Kate sits down on the chair he clears, smoothing her gray slacks and gracefully crossing her ankles. Her cheeks and hair glow. Starsky finds it difficult to believe she had once been months away from a lingering death. _Good for her_ , he thinks.

"Would you like something to drink?" He offers on auto-pilot.

"No, thank you. I can't stay long."

Starsky is secretly relieved to be spared a clumsy trip to the refrigerator. He snaps off the TV and sinks heavily back down on the couch.

"I'm sorry to drop in on you like this, but I'd heard about the . . . uh . . . shooting and I wanted to . . ." Kate's gaze flits around the room, the slender fingers of her right hand twisting at a silver ring on her left.

"No – that's okay." Starsky interjects quickly. While knifings and shootings might be commonplace to him and Hutch, he is reminded such violence is not typical cocktail party conversation.

"I was in town and stopped by the station to find out how you were doing. Ken wasn't there and I was told he'd most likely be here."

 _Of course._

"Well, I'm doin.'" Starsky gestures at the unkempt surroundings.

She takes a brief look around the apartment, then turns eyes the color of rich toffee to fix on him. "You survived. That's what matters."

"So they tell me."

"It matters to Ken, David. _You_ matter to Ken."

"That may be, but a lot of good I'm doing him now. I feel more like an anchor around his foot than his partner." Starsky falls back against the couch, disgusted with his display of petulance. He hardly recognizes himself these days.

Kate has the grace to look embarrassed for him and searches for a way to change the subject. "Ken and I go way back, you know. Did he ever talk about me, before I came asking for help, that is?"

"He showed me your picture in a magazine once. He seemed awfully proud to show it off."

Kate smiles at that, her sensuous lips a photographer's dream. But there is sadness behind her eyes. "That's all I was at one time. As two-dimensional as a picture."

Starsky shakes his head to refute her as politeness requires but she continues.

"I thought I knew everything when we were kids back in Duluth. I thought I knew what was important – looks, money, fame. But I didn't know anything at all." She gives her head a little shake. "Not until I thought I was going to die."

This time Starsky chooses not to interrupt her intimate admission. He suddenly senses in Kate a kindred soul. Someone who has smelled death's foul breath, seen its chalky eye staring back from the mirror. Hutch tries his best to understand. After all, to be honest, they'd both been close to death before. But he can't share this malignant helplessness, this lingering half-life.

"I don't know how you can consider death before it comes. Life is all we've got, whatever the circumstances," Kate speaks softly, as if to a shadow.

 _She knows._

"What?" He shivers and pulls a pillow reflexively to his chest. The words dredge up painful memories nearly forgotten; old postcards from Azerbaijan. The times they'd been so grateful for being brought back from the brink.

"That's what Ken told me." He has her full attention now. "He thought I was foolish for wanting to end my life before my time came on its own. He helped me realize my value had less to do with how I appeared on the outside than who I was on the inside."

She pushes away a stray chestnut wisp and her hair falls back into perfect order. "He challenged me to question whether people in hospitals are no less beautiful than _we_ are."

"Sounds like Hutch." Starsky finds himself smiling. A refreshing surprise, like a crocus in the snow.

"I ran into him several years ago. He must not have mentioned it to you. I believe he had just started at the police academy. He was still married to Vanessa at the time."

"Seems like a lifetime ago." So much has changed since then, it's difficult to believe they're the same men. _Like catching our reflections in a storefront window and for an instant not recognizing ourselves_ , he thinks.

"It wasn't Vanessa he talked about, David. It was _you_." Her gaze penetrates. "I knew even then how special you were to him. If I would have had someone like Ken in my life," a pause, a swallow. "I might not have hired someone to kill me."

An awkward silence. He shifts on the couch to find a more comfortable position and sees the bottle of pills on the coffee table, glaring at him.

"Good news though," she brightens. "My doctors say I'm doing great. And I'm getting married next month."

"That's great." He means it. "Who's the lucky guy?"

"A photographer friend of mine. We've known each for quite some time. I just was never willing to let anyone come into my life like that. I've never liked being vulnerable, letting anyone see my imperfections." She glances down at her ring then back up to Starsky. "But I got another chance and I don't intend to mess it up."

"You won't." He feels her need for assurance. An expert's appraisal of a rare gem. Maybe it's what he's been needing himself. A virtual stranger to hold up a mirror so he could himself reflected in another pair of eyes.

"I don't want to take any more of your time," she says and starts to get up. "I just wanted to stop by and see how you were. Our lives may have gone in different directions, but I owe you both that much."

Starsky sets aside the pillow and rises stiffly along with her. "I appreciate that. I'll tell Hutch you stopped by."

He follows Kate the few steps to the door, then she turns to him and gently touches his face. "Beauty isn't here, David, it's in _here_." Her hand drifts down to his chest, right above his wounded heart.

He reaches out and squeezes her hand as tightly as he can manage. "Thanks," he says roughly. She smiles at him and then is gone.

Chapter 5

HUTCH

" _We have something they don't . . . each other."_ \- Kenneth Hutchinson

Hutch sagged against the door frame outside Starsky's apartment. His reluctance to enter dragged at his soul. The daily grind of following up on the cold cases Dobey had assigned plus worrying about Starsky was exhausting. But it was Starsky's mood that wore him down most - dark and unfamiliar.

He'd called Starsky several times that day but the other man hadn't picked up. Hutch felt guilty for not stopping by to check on him or at least sending someone over, but he had gotten caught up in a contentious court hearing that lasted most of the day. Besides, from the way Starsky had acted the previous night and morning, he thought maybe they both needed some space.

He didn't blame Starsky. In fact, it was a miracle he had come this far. But why couldn't his partner see that when he had nearly died, Hutch had nearly died along with him? For a moment Hutch had caught a glimpse of hell and determined he'd rather stay there with Starsky than find himself in heaven alone. But lately, he'd felt Starsky pushing him away.

Hutch opened the door to see Starsky lying flat on the floor. _Oh God!_ His heart slammed into his rib cage as he rushed across the room. Then he heaved a breath in relief as he realized Starsky was merely resting, an old sleeping bag stretched out underneath to cushion him.

"What are you doing?" Hutch lurched to a halt above him, fighting not to sound overly dramatic.

"I was tryin' out some of the core exercises they had me doin' at physical therapy last week." Starsky put his forearms on the floor to push himself up. Hutch knelt down to support Starsky from his back, then stayed next to him while Starsky caught his breath. They both tried to ignore Starsky's obvious discomfort.

"I didn't go to therapy today," Starsky admitted after the pain had subsided.

"I gathered that," Hutch returned gently. As if on its own, his hand found its way to a low place between Starsky's shoulders and began a gentle massage.

"So I thought I'd try some things out here myself."

"Sounds like a good idea." Hutch felt more than heard the soft vibration of Starsky's sigh as he relaxed into the massage.

The hot stab of fear cooled and he felt his earlier frustration melting away, too, like butter on warm toast. He hadn't felt Starsky so welcoming of his touch since he had left the hospital. After a few minutes, he helped Starsky to his feet. Starsky sank to the couch while Hutch went to retrieve two root beers from the refrigerator.

"I had a visitor today." Starsky called after him. "Kate Larrabee."

"Really? What did she want?" Hutch came back to the couch and handed Starsky one of the brown bottles. He took a deep swig from the other and sank down next to him, adjusting the extra pillows to accommodate them both.

"She'd heard about what had happened with Gunther and all and wanted to see how I was doing."

"That was nice of her." Hutch turned to face Starsky and laid a hand on his knee. "How _are_ you doing?"

Hutch half expected to hear a smartass comeback, maybe Starsky comparing his insides to desiccated liver, and waited. They both knew it wasn't what he was asking. The conversation had been too long in coming.

His patience was rewarded with heart-rending honesty.

"Look Hutch. I've got scars like the tracks under Grand Central Station. I can't walk around the block, let alone chase down some goons. I get tired out puttin' mustard on pastrami. Maybe I'm no good anymore."

"Starsky, just because you're not ready to go a few rounds with the Omaha Tiger doesn't mean you're no good."

Starsky stared down at the bottle gripped tightly in his hands. "I can't stand being the one to drag you down or hold you back." His despair was so palpable, it was a third life force in the room.

"You're not holding me back, babe. You're the one who's always held me together." Hutch increased the pressure of his touch on Starsky's knee and was rewarded when Starsky looked up at him.

 _Ah, Starsk. If you could only see yourself through my eyes . . ._

Back in Duluth he'd been admired for all the wrong reasons. Smoke and mirrors and transitory things. But when he came to California he became part of something tangible and real. As fixed and timeless as the northern star.

"You were the first person who saw me for who I was, not just what I looked like." Their eyes met. It didn't occur to him to feel embarrassment at the raw admission. They'd crossed that boundary years ago.

"You really meant the things you told Kate, didn't you. I mean, it wasn't just some line, right?" Hutch felt something essential hung on his answer to Starsky's question.

"What did she tell you?" He'd said a lot to Kate that day. Words wrapped in disappointment and confusion, unraveling in tenderness and warmth.

"About the beauty in hospitals and lettin' death take its time."

"Oh yeah." Realization pinged through him. "Of course I meant it. Life isn't always pretty." _Sometimes it's messy and just plain fucked up. But that's what makes it real._

"Besides, I wasn't so pretty myself when I was puking my guts out upstairs at Huggy's. I thought _I_ wanted to die then. But you didn't let me. You didn't walk out on _me_." Hutch's squeeze to Starsky's knee came off a little stronger than he intended.

Starksy swallowed hard. It was a time they didn't like to talk about. Painful to each man in different ways. But necessary to not forget, just the same. The weakness, the breaking down, the determination and holding on. Building blocks in the solid structure of who they'd become.

"Sorry I've been such an ass," Starsky said at last. Hutch felt a surge of relief that he must have given him the right answer.

"You're not an ass, Starsk. Moron or dummy, maybe." Hutch's face twisted in a smile.

"Okay. I'll give ya that. Just don't let me take too much away from you." Starsky gave a shy grin, heart-stopping this time in the best way.

"Never." Hutch sent back a matching grin. "I still intend to see a hundred and forty-eight and I want you to be there with me. Dentures, arthritis and all." Exhilaration arced between them. The joy of life snatched away from death.

"Would you mind helpin' me with that shower now?"

Hutch gave a little chuff and set down his bottle. "I thought you'd never ask."


End file.
